Taking Care
by Socrates7727
Summary: Natasha takes care of herself. Always had, always would. Until she comes back from a mission and overestimates the strength it will take. Lying on the floor in misery, she doesn't expect anyone to come. But someone does... BuckyNat/WinterWidow! Fluffy one-shot.


AN I do not own Marvel or any of the characters! WinterWidow/BuckyNat, updated to be free of errors (hopefully)!

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Natasha took care of herself and she made that overwhelmingly clear. She was fine with people touching her as long as they were friends and she trained with many of them seemingly unfazed but never, ever did she let them take care of her. Doctors and nurses could tend to her if it was bad enough, with Clint's supervision, of course. Coulson could sometimes manage a concerned look if she was vulnerable, but for the most part it, was a done deal.

She took care of herself. And, sometimes, that was damn difficult-especially when it felt like lifting her hand would send her back to writhing on the bed in pain. But, she did it. Because injuries were weaknesses, and she could never manage to rest easy until they were patched and protected. God forbid, someone get close to her while they weren't. She felt like a wounded animal licking blood from her fur and snarling at anyone who dared to look at her.

But, everyone had been tense since shit had gone down between Steve and Tony, so no one batted an eye when she and Clint returned from a mission and she slipped off to her room. Clint went to the med bay and, really, she should have gone too. But, she convinced herself that she was fine.

Which, was how she ended up on the floor, shivering in a mound of blankets and pressing her sweaty forehead against the carpet in an attempt to cool down. The fever-undoubtedly from one of the wounds being infected-hit her fast and hard. She'd barely even registered that she was unsteady before she was splayed out on the floor.

And Natasha took care of herself. So, of course, no one was going to come looking for her or check on her. The only person who might have dared to was Clint; but, he was unconscious in a med room somewhere, so she was on her own. She groaned and tried to sit up, or at least make it to the bathroom, but another round of tremors racked her body in waves and forced her back to the ground. She hadn't even heard the door open.

"Talya?" She was relieved that it wasn't Steve or Tony but, honestly, she wasn't sure that Bucky was much better. He didn't remember her, so he was just being annoying. Natasha took care of herself; always had, always would.

"Natalya, let me see the wound." But, then his hands were on her skin and they were _so_ cold… They managed to soothe her throbbing headache just a bit, and they sent more shivers down her spine. She wanted to lean in and pull away at the same time. Gently, he removed the blankets. Something about him being there with her let her close her eyes again and she lost herself in the patterns dancing across the backs of her eyelids. Until, suddenly, she felt the sting of antiseptics and almost she screamed. She arched off the floor but he held her down.

"Natalya, it's okay I'm just treating the infection. I'm not going to hurt you." Her eyes closed again and it hit her. He was calling her Natalya. None of the others knew that that was technically her name, and it wasn't in any file that Shield had. He'd called her Talya. She breathed a sigh of relief and relaxed as he coaxed a cup of water into her hands.

He remembered her.

The wound wasn't much, honestly, she'd just neglected it for too long. Regardless, he treated it well enough and he managed to get her up, into the bathroom. Had the bathroom always been that far?

He filled the tub—she heard the water—and undressed her without a second of hesitation. All the better, she thought, considering the fact that she was still covered in dirt and dried blood. Slowly, he picked her up and lowered her down into the water-which was surprisingly cool given how much she'd been shivering. But it was perfect. He ran a soapy cloth all over her skin, skirting around any cuts and softening his touch over the bruises.

Gently, he cupped the back of her neck and eased her away from the edge of the tub, just far enough to pour a cup of water through her hair. Then again. And again. He shampooed her hair with one hand, holding her upright with the other, and rinsed that too. Slowly, carefully. He washed her face with the precision of a fucking machine and didn't get a drop of soap in her eyes, which she marveled at half-consciously. Even _she_ usually got soap in her eyes, but that was just because she was impatient. He was anything but.

The bath water was cold and tinged a rusty shade of orange by the time he reached for the plug to drain it. One hand leisurely massaged conditioner into her hair—his, she realized, because she'd run out weeks ago and had never made it to the store—while the other rinsed her now dripping body with clean water from the spout. Making sure every bit of blood, even just a hint, was washed away. He rinsed out the conditioner, bit by bit, but she wasn't cold, so she didn't mind. His fingers in her hair were actually quite relaxing and it eased her headache so she allowed it.

He lifted her, with no warning. In one, easy swoop she was in his arms and, for a split second, she felt like she was falling. She grabbed frantically for anything to hold onto. When the panic passed, her fists were balled into his shirt and she was clinging to him, but she couldn't make herself let go. He didn't make her either.

He sat her on a folded towel on the edge of the counter; he held her up as he methodically dries every inch of her skin. He even wrapped her hair up so it wouldn't drip. With that done, he picked her up again and, that time, her hands flew instinctively to his neck. But he didn't seem to mind. He set her gently on her bed and began rummaging through her dresser. Her eyes were still closed—really she shouldn't have trusted him that much—but she felt him pull a pair of underwear up over her hips. As he turned back for more clothes, she let a hand briefly feel the material. Cotton, and a normal panty shape. No thong. No lace or silk. Just normal underwear.

He wasn't making it sexual.

Sweats came next, the light purple pair that she kept hidden in her bottom drawer and usually only wore on her period. He lifted those up over her hips too. Good, she couldn't help thinking, because the air was starting to feel cold on her skin.

He didn't even put a bra on her. Maybe he didn't know how, but a much larger part of her said it was because he knew her. Knew she had those oversized sweats, and knew she never slept in a bra because what woman did? He found a loose T-shirt instead and managed to get it over her head, despite her hair still being wrapped in a towel. She was going to have to ask him how he'd done that later... But he just eased her arms through the arm holes and disappeared for a moment.

She panicked, but stopped herself just for a moment. Something told her he wasn't leaving. She couldn't exactly feel his presence in the room, nor was she listening for footsteps or doors like she should have been, but something like instinct told her that he wouldn't leave yet. That they weren't done yet.

And, sure enough, he returned. He pulled her into his lap and took the towel gently out of her hair, drying it a bit more as he did. She curled into his chest because he was warm, and comfortable, and smelled like security-but he let her. Honestly, she'd expected some kind of attack-maybe to the base of her skull, even, for such a display of weakness-because they were Red Room trained, through and through, but he she held her there.

Slowly, he began to brush her hair. He was careful and gentle, starting from the bottom and working his way up so that none of the tangles or knots pulled too hard on her scalp. Even when all the tangles were gone—her hair wasn't that long, she knew, and it was easy to untangle—he kept going. Repeating the motion, letting her focus on the sensation of him brushing her hair. It felt like hours before he put the brush down, but she still found herself reaching for his wrist, trying to tell him to keep going. She didn't, though.

He gave her hair one last once over with the towel before disappearing with both implements, but she wasn't worried. Laid out on her bed, in her most comfortable clothes, it was hard to be worried. He returned and coaxed another glass of water into her hands before he let her lie back down but, even when she did, he didn't leave. He stayed beside her and traced patterns on her arms.

"It's okay Talya, you're okay." But she wasn't worried, surprisingly. She honestly had no anxiety or dread about the current situation and, as much as that should have scared her? It didn't. She loved it, because she was relaxed and, for once, she didn't have to take care of herself. She could just let someone else deal with it, finally, without her body screaming at her when she did. Her bones didn't ache and fight, begging her to defend herself and lick her own wounds, even as he traced lazy patterns on her arms. Nothing felt off about this. It almost felt normal.

"Why are you doing this?" He sighed, running his hand through her hair absentmindedly. He looked saddened by the question, or by the fact she even asked, but he didn't stop touching her or soothing her headache. She hoped that he wasn't upset, but she had to ask. She couldn't just trust it. No matter how badly she wanted to.

"Why?" he repeated, disbelieving. "Because I take care of you, Talya. I always have." She looked to him in question, not quite comprehending what he was saying, but he just smiled. Gently, he smoothed her drying hair out of her face and pressed his lips to her forehead. And then, suddenly, it all snapped back.

That motion, that reassuring little touch, she could remember it as clear as day from childhood to now—over and over again, that little touch. When she was on the floor and starving, that touch. When she was chained to a pole with whip marks slashed angrily into her flesh, that little touch pulled her back. Lying in the snow, that little touch. Pressing the sharp point of a knife into her wrists, craving an end to the pain, until that touch soothed her.

"Always have," he whispered, smoothing tears from her cheek. "Always will."

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Thanks for reading! Please review! Should I do more BuckyNat/WinterWidow stuff?


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